Caleb began with optimism and penetrating oil.
By Tuesday, optimism was gone.
Penetrating oil remained.
Most bolts had not moved in years.
Some seemed personally offended by the concept.
He heated them.
Tapped them.
Soaked them.
Used breaker bars.
One snapped anyway.
Then another.
He labeled every part with masking tape.
B1 gearbox.
B2 pickup.
B3 chamber.
B4 knotter.
The barn floor disappeared beneath chains, guards, bearings, bolts, gears, brackets, springs, and metal pieces that would have looked meaningless to anyone unfamiliar with balers.
Caleb made drawings.
Measured shafts.
Compared sprockets.
His school notebooks gained grease stains.
On Wednesday evening, his friend Luke stopped by.
Luke stood at the barn entrance.
“Oh.”
Caleb looked up.
“What?”
“I thought people were exaggerating.”
“About?”
“You turning the barn into a machine graveyard.”
Caleb went back to cleaning a chain.
Luke walked closer.
“You actually think this works?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Parts interchange.”
“All of them?”
“No.”
“So?”
“I only need enough.”
Luke picked up a bent pickup tooth.
“This thing?”
“Bad.”
Another.
“This?”
“Bad.”
Another.
Caleb looked.
“Good.”
Luke frowned.
“They look the same.”
“That is why I’m doing this and you’re not.”
Luke threw a rag at him.
By Friday, word had spread.
Small towns possess information networks faster than telephones.
Caleb Turner was rebuilding four junk balers.
Or trying.
Depending on the storyteller.
The exaggeration grew.
One version said Sarah Turner had bought him six machines.
Another claimed Caleb planned to manufacture balers.
Another said he had dropped out of school.
He had not even started the semester.
At the diner Saturday morning, Caleb entered for breakfast and heard his project discussed before anyone noticed him.
Mr. Morrison sat with two farmers.
One said:
“Boy will learn.”
Morrison answered:
“That’s worth twenty-five dollars.”
Then he saw Caleb.
He grinned.
“How’s the factory?”
Caleb poured syrup over pancakes.
“Slow.”
“Got one running?”
“No.”
“Two?”
“No.”
The farmers laughed.
Caleb ate.
Mr. Morrison called again:
“You find enough good pieces yet?”
Caleb swallowed.
“Yes.”
That quieted them briefly.
Morrison leaned back.
“How many?”
“Enough.”
“For what?”
“One.”
“Working?”
“Eventually.”
Morrison smiled.
“I’ll believe that when I see a bale.”
Caleb nodded.
“That seems fair.”
Again, the farmer did not get the reaction he wanted.
Caleb finished breakfast.
Paid.
Left.